


Six Faith and Willow Vignettes

by frogfarm



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bonding, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Post-Chosen, Post-Episode: s07e22 Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-18
Updated: 2004-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Chosen Faith and Willow, slowly growing closer. Not part of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/562">Faith the Vampire Slayer</a>.</p><p>Four Faith POV's, two Willow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Faith and Willow Vignettes

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Buffy 7x22, "Chosen". Not officially part of the [Faith the Vampire Slayer 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/562). Only in spirit: This is where that was born.

The sun's just setting as Faith returns from her all-day sightseeing tour, feeling a warm tug at the sight of the scruffy rented beach house. The people inside might not always be as glad to see her, but she's finally secure enough in herself -- or thinks she is -- that most of the awkwardness is gone. Always swore she'd never be a team player, but here she is, finally a real part of Team Scooby.

Even if the team is scattered to the four winds: Xander braving the Middle East, walking through minefields with Christlike calm (or so Dawn fretted, seeing his first photographs); Giles returned to the mother country to rebuild a kinder, gentler Council with a healthy dose of Slayer's equal rights; Buffy and Dawn sucking up Italy, finally getting the chance to be sisters for real. And if she gets too jealous she only has to remind herself of Andrew, somehow still in the blonde Slayer's good graces and attached to her hip. Part of her will always be sure that Buffy can no longer imagine life without the geek around to abuse; a small part that makes her feel small even if it is true, or maybe because of it.

She lets herself in, smelling incense in the air and whiskey on the wind. For a brief moment she thinks Giles is back until she sees Willow through the screen door, sitting at an empty table with a full bottle, back to the house as she gazes at the picturesque moonlit waves.

The witch doesn't turn around, and Faith wonders if this is it, the moment she gets cut loose, until she sees the empty spaces in the room where luggage used to be and barely catches a sigh of relief. She and Robin had been an amicable split -- admittedly, by her crappy standards -- but as far as she was concerned this particular rebound had been headed south long before they crossed the border. Kennedy's upbringing had apparently rivalled Queen Cordy's when it came to privilege, and her ascerbic pierced tongue soon found itself silenced by sharp glances from her older counterpart; with the threat of apocalypse temporarily averted, Faith had been both more and less willing to take crap from anyone, including fledgling Slayers with silver spoons stuck up their ass. Everyone else had just been so happy to see Willow "moving on" and Kennedy gushing starry-eyed declarations about finding her way that, like the happy couple, they had ignored all the warning signs until it was too late.

"Finally did it, huh?"

Will's ignoring her -- par for the course -- and so she plops down in the other chair. The bottle's almost as full as the glass, and Faith whistles as she catches sight of the label.

"Top shelf, Red. Giles know you raided his stash?"

That's worth a smile, however weak. "Actually, he gave me this before he went back to England. Some subtle commentary about things and people taking time to mature."

She hefts the bottle and an eyebrow, to no reaction. _Talk about verbal shrug._ Willow doesn't offer a toast as the Slayer throws her head back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Damn. That's some good stuff."

Willow nods and tips her glass sideways, watching amber tendrils crawl flicking up the inside.

"Xander stole some of his dad's whiskey when we were six. I still can never remember how he convinced me to try it. I just remember it was like cough syrup. Without the yummy cherry flavor." She takes a delicate sip and closes her eyes. "But this...it's like candy. Grown-up candy."

Faith can feel her thighs warming to match the redhead's glow, only the pang of conscience restraining innuendo.

"Plus, all that enzyme action going on during fermentation? Major rush."

"That cheer's ringin' just a little false now." Faith curses herself for speaking her mind, even while convincing herself confrontation is still the best policy. Gotta be better to have all your crap out in the open with the fresh air and sunlight. She gazes out over the waves, considering options.

"I'm a horrible person." Willow says it like Buffy would say, _I'm going to the mall_ , and Faith nearly chokes on her drink. When she can swallow again she slams the bottle down on the table, just hard enough to make the witch jump.

"Hello, earth to pot? Queen of the kettle club, here." At least she's getting eye contact, so she forges ahead. "I was just gonna comment on what a romantic scene this all is. Or would be, if it wasn't kinda weirding me out." She shouldn't have to bring up Xander, holed up down in the basement for nearly a week after his maiming; Spike may not have encouraged his alcohol abuse, but he hadn't lifted a finger to stop it. The acid presence of a man whose small remaining innocence she had stolen, sitting in that dank, dark place with an eyepatch and a bottle, had nearly driven her mad. _Oh yeah, if you're plannin' another apocalypse, could you wait 'til you sleep off the hangover first?_ But she hadn't been around for that, and it's still hard to believe when she isn't looking Willow in the eye.

Willow's shaking her head, looking out to sea again. "You mean the whole maudlin, drowning-my sorrows thing?" She purses her lips in that sad smile that always reminds Faith of Jack Nicholson's Joker, minus the psychosis. "More like snorkeling, really. And hey, with the Slayer constitution you could probably finish that bottle and it'd be like the equivalent of this glass." She takes a bigger sip, the grimace of pleasure turning into a just plain grimace.

"Hardly," Faith scoffs. "I can drink B under the table. Might be a Slayer, but she's a cheap date." She grins as the redhead turned a moderately scandalized look upon her. "I mean, to hear Spike tell it."

Willow nods. "Spike exaggerates a lot. But Buffy not holding her liquor? Not real high on the exaggerato-meter."

Faith fishes a crumpled cigarette pack from her jacket, begins the quest for a lighter. She's refrained of late out of consideration for Kennedy, or rather, out of a desire to avoid the inevitable bitchfest that resulted. If Willow wants to object no doubt she can and will, but she'll probably be more polite about it. She still gets a kick out of pushing B's buttons, always will, and Dawn had always been just plain fun to tease, but Willow is fast approaching the top of her list of People Not to Piss Off. Not because of the enormous sorcerous power at her disposal -- though she should probably be more concerned than she is, about that -- but because when she gets that look it makes Faith want to run into traffic and rescue a puppy, just to make it go away.

Of course, she'll kill the first person who mentions it.

She rises from her chair, slipping the bottle into her coat. Willow doesn't look forlorn. More annoyed.

"Patrolling?" Eight years of Buffy-history in that one sour word. Faith doesn't make the mistake of looking back, so she can sound like she's the one with the intact sense of humor.

"Gotta get paid, so we can maintain our cushy digs." She manages the teasing voice but doesn't bother with the wiggle, tells herself it's for all the right reasons. "Cufauz demons don't just skin themselves, y'know."

She hunts for hours without ceasing, comes back pleasantly sweaty, the bloody fabric of her jeans chafing her thighs. Always so much more bearable after a good slay - never a job, always an adventure. Too bad she can't leave even a single egg behind, so the Cufauz won't completely die out; they mostly stay underground and aren't big on the threat to humans meter, and the pelts are worth a hefty sum on the black and grey markets. On the other hand, maybe driving down the supply will give her more leverage to haggle.

Willow's fallen asleep at the table.

She puts a pillow under the witch's head, takes the couch where she can see the door, with Xander's patented stake trap waiting in case she nods off. The bed's not that comfortable anyway.

 

**

"I want a coffeemaker."

Willow's lower lip is clearly going for the gold in Most Adorable Curling, and Faith desperately tries to maintain her crumbling resolve. "Babe, there's cheap espresso machines in every hotel lobby and quick mart from here to Katmandu. You throw your butt in the shower, throw some clothes on, hike your butt down to said lobby or quick mart. End of story."

Willow's lip remains in place as if cemented, but her voice actually gets less petulant and more reasonable. Faith really hates that.

"Fresh, high-quality caffeine is essential to getting the Wicca gears moving in the mornings. Studies have shown --"

"Softy." Faith shakes her hair free, pulling the towel loose, twirling it in her most menacing fashion and casting a meaningful look at the witch's hindquarters. Willow's arched eyebrow, while an unexpectedly positive surprise, seems more a dare than an invitation, and after a moment she slings her weapon over her shoulder again. She's sure the resulting look isn't disappointment, but it sure is cute. Probably outrage; Willow always does that best.

"Oh, sure. This from the woman who woke me up at oh dark thirty with her dulcet screams of wussness --" Yeah, Faith thinks to herself, that was most definitely outrage. "-- and begging me to hex the water heater?"

"That was --" Faith grinds sputtering to a halt, actually shakes her finger in the witch's face; Willow takes this as an invitation to cross the line from smirking to outright giggles, and the Slayer falls back among the couch cushions with a groan of defeat. As usual, glowering has only the opposite of its intended effect.

"Okay, so I got a few creature comforts. Few years behind bars tends to help sort out your priorities." She holds up a hand, staving off the inevitable apologies complete with stammering that inevitably follow. "Not asking for the Ritz with room service here. But if you get a coffeemaker, I want a decent hot shower. Ain't like we can't afford it with your honey pullin' up stakes --"

 _Ah, hell._ How much further can one face fall?

"I didn't break up with Kennedy because I wasn't in love with her," Willow says, real quiet. "I did it because I couldn't stand feeling guilty about it."

"Whoa, Red!" Faith holds up both hands, feeling deer-like in a headlight sort of way. "Too much information, capische? Heart to heart ain't my style."

For that little second she doesn't know if she's pissed the witch off, and god she does care, but she still doesn't have the words. Willow just shoves her chair back, gets up and disappears into the bathroom while Faith stews in her juices. When the door opens again, she's changed the fuzzy sweater and long skirt for the jean jacket, jeans, hiking boots; lips compressed and thin, hair pulled back, all business. Faith watches her leave in silence, hoping she's just off to her morning meditations. She won't admit to the fear until Willow makes it vanish by coming back for lunch, jacket over her shoulder, pale skin flushed with exertion and sun.

In her mind she'll always see Willow and Xander at the airport locked in a death embrace, then and now thinking how close she came to making a play for the Xan Man again if she hadn't been in constantly questioning Am I Doing the Right Thing mode. Maybe he'd have smiled and turned her down, or not; she regrets it in an oh-so-small way, but the notion of bumping naughties with any of the original Scoobies has this tinge of wrongness that isn't entirely due to the mock incest angle. Will might be hot enough to get over it, Faith just doesn't think she can ever be sure she isn't doing it for the wrong reason. Robin didn't make _that_ part any easier.

She still doesn't let Willow get away with veggie burgers again. Some lines demand to be drawn.

 

**

"So you guys did the ritual --"

"Sixteenth of May." Willow sips her fizzy lemonade like it's pure moonshine, her lip and nose doing the most adorable thing ever seen. If Faith didn't know she was whipped before, it's a sure thing now. She forces herself not to knock back her Scotch like so much water. Dainty sips, lady-like, all Buffy Summers holier-than-thou --

She settles for, "Huh." No time or patience for a good old-fashioned rant, not with Willow back in eager beaver research mode, looking all cute and expectant. Casting her mind back, dredging through days to the time when they most blended together without distinction...

"Holy crap." Her mouth's gone dry but she sets the glass down. It all comes flooding back now; a few weeks after her initial incarceration, before Angel's first visit, when she was still getting thrown in solitary on a regular basis. She hadn't dreamed at all since fleeing the hospital in Sunnydale, let alone anything that felt like it qualified as "prophetic Slayer vision" - hell, she'd been afraid to sleep. But that sucker was long and intricate and way heavy on the symbolism, even the parts without her, and Giles as a preacher? She knew better than to breathe a word of _that_ to the prison shrink, but Willow soaks it right up, even types a few quick notes into her laptop to send off to Giles.

Who knows? Maybe she's been part of the gang longer than she knew.

Tit for tat, she fills in the gaps of her flight to LA. Stumbles when she gets to Wesley; but it's not like she hasn't told it before, and Willow makes it almost too easy.

"I think the worst part was after he came and got me." Would Wesley like this Scotch, or was he a Guiness guy? It suddenly seems very important. "I mean, I'm still not quite over the wracked with guilt thing, and the only reason I spring myself is to help bag Angelus. Don't even think to call B in, just smash and go. I dust a few vamps, everything's goin' my way, until my first real fight with a mountain of rock that stomps me flatter than shit _and_ disses the whole Slayer line." Something's wrong; Willow should be telling her she sounds like Buffy with the babbling.

"So Angelus takes a few pokes at me after I'm all softened up, does his classic mindfuck and buggers off. Then Wes drags my bloody carcass back to his place -- and that wasn't it," she adds, seeing Willow's face. "Okay, kinda weird to be gettin' the candy striper routine from someone you tortured and almost gutted --"

Willow nods sagely. "The hurt-comfort dynamic can be a powerful thing."

"Even if we hadn't been in the middle of an apocalypse, it wasn't about makin' with the mackin'." She swings her boots down from the table and they hit hard on the thin wood floor, fixes Willow with a look that says No Bullshit Allowed. "He put a knife through a girl's shoulder right in front of me, told me --" She knows it was only to get her to kill Angel, but it doesn't make the words sting less. "Told me I shoulda been put down years ago."

"Ouch." Willow's all sympathy, not a hint on her face that at one time she would have gladly administered the injection. "Guess that place he went to was darker than he let on."

"I don't know what he went through while I was inside. Hell, maybe I don't want to know. What I _do_ know? I was just the first loop on his roller coaster of fun." She stares into space, the Many Faces of Wes laid out in her memory like so many playing cards. "And I don't particularly wanna see how much further he can go."

* * *

"...so he grabs me from behind, I can tell he's vampin' out, just _feel_ it -- does the big pause and then, all dramatic like -- 'You will be', right before he digs in."

Willow's throat works, eyes big as saucers, working up to a single syllable that finally escapes. "Ouch."

"Vampire fall down, go boom." She makes it sound casual as she stretches in the rickety chair, feels a pop in her shoulder where she landed wrong last night. "We spend a coupla hours shrinkin' each other's heads 'til you pop a soul back in him, I kick his kid's ass, and you an' me have a nice quiet ride back to Sunny D."

Apparently this is a distressing reminder. She's positive the other woman wants to apologize for not immediately rolling out the red carpet, but all Will does is change the subject.

"You weren't worried he'd turn you? That would have been the _first_ thing on my mind." The redhead rubs her neck, spots Faith's questioning look. "Oh, Spike threatened to turn me once. Plus..." Oh, it's been too long since she saw that blush. "Well, I once met alternate-universe vamp me in person, and wasn't _that_ a confusing time until I figured out, gay without the skanky and..." Her nose wrinkles. "I was gonna say 'evil', but -- not so quick to label after having actually tackled the penultimate badness."

"Gotcha." Faith mulls that one over a second as she pours herself one more shot. Not feeling the need to chug as much these days, especially when sips can be more fun. She finally decides; was pretty sure she already knew the answer, but you want to be sure about these things.

"Not really. Wes came up with the mix and the dose, told me I might be able to keep fighting for ten minutes. I figured once Angel got a bite, he'd keel right over." She grins at the memory. "Pretty much it, too. Boy's got _no_ stamina."

"But what if he hadn't?"

"Never been much for what-ifs." She flashes her most killer smile. "Gotta admit, though. I'd make one bad-ass vamp."

* * *

The only time she comes close to losing it is finally hearing the Cruciamentum story. Willow gets to the part where a tearful Buffy confronts her traitorous Watcher and black rage nearly bubbles out of her, and the glass shatters in her hand before she can hurl it at the wall. The witch just takes it in stride, goes and gets the bandages, cleans and dresses her hand while she sits in silence. No antibiotics -- just gives the Slayer healing powers one more thing to fight.

Willow finishes and it's better, but not much. She would have liked more Giles time when they were all battling the First, but it would have been so hard to look him in the eye and want that trust, knowing what he'd done. And if she'd known then --

"I woulda killed him."

Willow, in the middle of putting away medical supplies, doesn't bat an eyelash. "Why?" She remembers that too, now; so hard to believe this delicate, big-eyed girl kneeling here nearly killed the man in question herself.

"For doin' that to B." She closes her eyes; easier than pretending to stare into space. "Hell, any girl any Watcher ever did like that. Shove a piece of a demon in us, spend the next couple thousand years --" She swallows hard. "For givin' us the power...and then takin' it away."

It's a long while before she thinks of Willow again, the smell of cookies actually the first thing she notices. She rises from her chair, feeling just a hint of off-balance from liquor and emotion, makes her way to the kitchen. Turns out they really did have all the ingredients, and when the gas line goes dead, Willow's pride in her minor oven magick is even sweeter.

 

**

Willow was obviously working up to full-on rant mode, her lip curling cutely in disgust as she paced back and forth. "I mean, what do people _mean_ when they say they love somebody? Or that they're 'in love' with somebody? The whole romantic ideal, falling head over heels for some stranger on the street, is infatuation! It's juvenile, a-and empty --" She stopped, breathing hard, and Faith was suddenly very sorry she'd broached the topic to begin with.

"Geez. Thought _I_ was bad."

"It's not you, it's --" Willow looked almost stricken for a moment. She turned away, hugging her arms about her chest as she stared out the window. "I just stuttered. And it reminded me of being a dorky little kid, and it reminded me of Tara..."

A chill went through the Slayer at the memory of her brief sojourn in Buffy's stolen body. Her treatment of the shy, soft-spoken witch was just one of the many things Faith wished she could take back, but right now, with the woman's widow sitting in front of her all forlorn like, it seemed like the most important. She cleared her throat, ready to unburden, but as usual Willow was way ahead of her.

"I kept telling myself there was nothing wrong with Kennedy. That there was something wrong with _me_."

"Maybe." She meets Willow's gaze unflinchingly. "Thought there was somethin' wrong with me since forever. Dunno if I still do." She has to look away, then. "Trust me, Red. Ain't nothin' wrong with you."

 

**

Willow knows it has to be a dream, mostly because everything either has that Vaseline-lens blur or is so sharply detailed, so perfectly realized, it hurts to look at. Tara's there, hovering nervously over Faith's shoulder, and that's sort of a sign too, but Miss Kitty is the clincher; curled up in Faith's lap as the Slayer rocks back and forth, fingers gently playing with the twitching tips of kitty ears.

"Somethin' wrong, Will?" Faith's eyes are dark and unblinking. Behind her Tara dances, her movements a silent plea.

"I - I'm not sure." She glances down, almost expecting to see a plaid jumper, but there's nothing there; no light, not even dark. She looks back at Faith. "I think I need to find Buffy."

"'Cause I'm no substitute. I get that." Faith nods, and Willow realizes her lips (full and bruised, so soft) haven't moved. The Slayer looks over her shoulder at Tara. "You could take this one."

Tara's hands weave imploringly as she gazes at Willow. _I like your hair_ , she seems to say.

"Is she okay?" She's never liked feeling perplexed. Problems require solutions; solutions demand elegance.

Faith shrugs, tilting the world further off balance. "We're all movin' a little slower these days."

"I can't do this any more." And she means it, this time. She's so tired...

"C'mon, Will." The Slayer's quiet voice holds fresh urgency, but she can't tell if there are tears in Faith's eyes; not in this light. "You're the key. Where's _my_ big gun?"

Through the curtains it's getting brighter, and so very warm.

Tara's lip trembles as she steps to the window. Willow wants to scream, but of course she can't, and that's how she knows it's a dream.

It doesn't help.

Tara pulls back the curtain, and smoke lazily curls up from Faith's skin. White light, not the light of magick something tearing her to atoms and oh goddess it _BURNS -- *_

She jerks upright in a sweat, hands clutching the quilt as pale dawn washes into the room. Faith's already at her side supporting her, actually holding her close and murmuring into her hair, the rough denim of her jacket smells like burning leaves.

Her breathing slows, and then quickens, and she realizes her body is waiting for her to make a decision. Faith is silent, looking right back at her. Not afraid; never afraid.

She wraps her hand in that mass of hair, and pulls Faith down.

For once, her eyes stay open the whole time.

 

**

"I'm sick of talking." Faith isn't breaking something for punctuation, isn't even raising her voice, and Willow knows she'd rather be screamed at. Anything but this quiet desperation, the look that broke her heart already once before, that says _I trusted you. And you're killing me._

"You're right." She gathers her grief and stands. Faith doesn't reach out or even look up, and it hardens her purpose. Real strength only comes when you're eaten away from within. "If you want me to have a chance of saving them? No more time for talk."

"Dammit, Red..." Nothing but a broken whisper.

"Last chance."

She can always feel it, when her eyes go dark. Tendrils of power lick out from her in a silent shout of joy as they connect with their new gift, forming a line from Fortalera to Los Angeles of dead insects and bloody noses; she could teleport in now if she turned their brains to pudding, but she still has some shred of concern left for innocents caught in the crossfire. And she needs to conserve her energy if she hopes to be of any use to them. But Illyria won't be able to hold the portal for more than a few seconds, even with her help.

Between them a hole forms, quickly expanding from floor to ceiling with a roar. She doesn't wait for this decision. She just steps through, before she changes her mind.

It's wind and lightning and rain, and oh yes, thunder too, like a wrecking crew of gods armed with hammers. What fills her now is timeless, beyond her pitiful dreams of destruction or creation. She and the demon are inexorably bound, and thoughts of anything but victory are the raging flood of fire that leaps from her to lay waste to a phalanx, the bloody sword that flickers in Illyria's hand leaving a trail of countless malformed bodies. The man she knew as Gunn is a mass of meat on the ground, and if she can't see Spike she can hear him, all snarls and swearing. In her head Illyria's grief for Wesley resounds, melding with every tear she's shed in Tara's name, making something hot and sharp that sizzles the air.

There's still too many, and it doesn't matter.

But she hears the Slayer's cry, sees Faith's bloody grin as she buries an axe in a demon's chest, shoving him off and yanking the blade free as she howls a challenge and looks wildly around for her next target.

And then, Willow thinks they just might have a chance.

**


End file.
